The days prior to the funeral all the birds kept singing, and the greens throughout the city, growing on mossy-black tree branches and concrete and brown brick buildings, and peeking through mud and insects, the colors underneath the brown of pond water, were vibrant. On the day, the air retained a smoky sunlight, enveloping us as the remainders of the world, what was left. The cars rumble down the highway lanes. We arrived at home, ordered dinner, and went to bed.
I can only think about what I have of this life I’ve built these past three years. I smell it on me sometimes, a familiar smell like rain falling on a thin pavement, underneath a thinner window; it stays long enough to be noticed, dissipating as you’re about to reach and keep it safe on your body as a feeling. The used black Danskos I put over white socks to walk to the Pond, lie out in the sun on a hill, watch spindly oak flowers fall over me. The winter wind I hid from in various jackets, crossing the urban terrain to the quiet of the library, passing by its empty courtyard, awaiting the summer. The other night, upon opening my legs, I recognized the smell: three in the morning sweat, three in the afternoon fucking, lilac bushes from a new spring. The body (my body) remembers: a room with yellow curtains, a painting depicting a childhood, the knobby hands of my grandmother splotched with vitiligo, a swollen sea of salt, cutting fruit in the sink surrounded by two in the afternoon sunlight, a dry river in New Hampshire, set up the hammocks, a drive through stark Tennessee woodlands and the mantra that carried me through — body / cliffs / birds / river / stone / crystal / pyramid / tint.1
The feel of hard wooden floors where I pressed my face to feel music vibrate against me, dusty book jackets collected in strangers’ houses I made home in for weeks at a time, watching small flying bugs’ bodies illuminate against the sheerness of the water spewing from a backyard sprinkler. I think of all the places I will never step into again, never be the same in again, if I were invited back, either as guest or caretaker. Interluding my remembering, the song about me, written by my ex and reposted on instagram by everyone, my hands plastered on the cover, me looking at my hands not as part of my body but as an object, art form, and magnet for someone else’s pain and retelling. How could I have been upset when I’ve done the same? Written, with open windows and on heirloom dining tables, my retellings of others’ voices and touches and sentiments, all picked up through a drunken course, for the story, simply put, to give myself something to implore. I can still walk to the bench outside of the playground I’d watch my shadows elongate from, the color of the Charles changing in the summer and in the fall, the metal pangs of the T, the first time the skyline emerges against the pale sunset, on the way back home from a 9-5 I’d soon quit, to live in a solo apartment in a foreign land, where the keys didn’t work, so an old man would open the building door for me, and we became friends. And yet, what I’ve mentioned here is only a conglomerate blur of senses, like thin vellum paper stacked upon each other, transparent enough to see right through them. As the night light returns to this day, I can only feel the blessings of a mundane life, flowing in memory within me.
Today, a pigeon coos from a rooftop down to me, sitting on my front porch writing this, as the wind begins to wane just before the night. Spring, despite how I write to you about it, is my least favorite season, but at least it’s fleeting. It reminds me, if you hold on to anything for too long, it’ll leave you clawing.
Hi hello! Welcome back to fotocopy — today’s short issue was the easiest to write so far this year, and that makes me very happy. I feel like I’m getting my writing groove back; it’s like one day my brain could think about sentences and form again. It’s funny how creativity literally can strike like that at any time, and as much as I have resisted the age-old idea of taking time off to ease a creative block, it worked. Thank you, like always, for reading my substack. It means so much.
I got a new job!!! I literally start today/tomorrow (depending on when you read this) and I am incredibly stoked. It feels like all the pieces in my life that were missing are coming together. I’m super nervous for my first day, going back to an office gig feels like the first day of kindergarten in my head, but I hope it will also be as engaging and rewarding as kindergarten was. More on this later!
Apart from preparing for my new job, these past two weeks I watched Mickey 17, which was so good and much more of a love story than I expected! It was such a fun watch. I also rewatched Kiki’s Delivery Service, which is my favorite Ghibli Studios movies of all time. It simultaneously reminds me of childhood and of first moving to Boston and being alone and trying to hustle for the first time. I showed it to A for the first time, cozied up in bed after a long week. One of the best parts of being in a relationship is showing each other different things, much like he showed me the BigXThaPlug “Ayye” in every one of his songs.
I finished Down the Drain by Julia Fox in like three days because WOW — such an amazing memoir. Fox is a celebrity at this point, but I admire her grit and artistry that it took as she came up in the NYC party scene. They really don’t make ‘em like her anymore. After reading her memoir, I looked up one of her early photography books, PTSD, (it’s very NSFW!) which she released after a six-month stint in Louisiana, where she was escaping NYC. The book feels like such a 2015 time capsule, reminiscent of the cultural landscape that Tumblr was back in the day, but also extremely personal. If I ever find a copy I can afford, I am definitely copping.
I also finished Mona2, which was so good! It’s funny what you can enjoy once your frontal lobe fully develops. It was a great short novella with a crazy little ending. If you need something short and fun, I recommend that.
I’ve been listening to Tennis’ final album, Face Down in the Garden nonstop. My favorites are At the Apartment, 12 Blown Tires, Through the Mirror, and Sister, which A claims is their best song. We both agree that if it were recorded 50 years ago, it would be an American classic, so maybe I partially agree with him.
I’m also into tinted lip balm, cleaning my room, and forgetting to drink coffee all day.
Go C’s (love u JT) —
-Gabo
I linked this book in the last issue, but here it is again